I want to believe him. But I’ve been promised things before, things that could never be true. I don’t want to believe that StatMan would lie to me, so I choose to believe that he just happens to have a complicated work situation, even though that’s bullshit.
Yoga4Lyfe
Goodnight. Dream about me.
StatMan12
I always do, baby.
Setting the phone down on my nightstand, my body still hums with aftershocks. My skin is still sensitive, but my mind won't settle. As much as texting StatMan is enjoyable, I’m starting to feel like he's just using me. A fun fantasy every night before he goes to sleep.
I’d like it to be more, but he obviously doesn’t want that.
My mind wanders, picturing who he could be. Traveling for work makes sense. Obviously he does something physical,because abs like he has in his photo don't come from spending time on the couch.
What else do I know about him? He could be a personal trainer. Maybe he works for a moving company or fells trees for a living.
Or maybe... he's an athlete. A hockey player.
A burst of giggles escapes from my throat. Yeah, right. He's one of Silas's teammates and he picked me because he liked my downward dog photo. The chances of a pro athlete picking a soft-bodied girl whose only true love is pizza are so unbelievably low, it's laughable. Hockey god meets shy yoga nerd.
Besides, I’mdonewith hockey players. Leaning back into my pillows, a smile forms on my lips and my eyes drift closed. The very silly notion that StatMan could be a ripped hottie instead of a photo stolen from Facebook follows me into my dreams.
Chapter Sixteen
Silas
Her text pings before warmups.
Scout
Good luck tonight. Don't kill anyone.
Attached is a photo. She's curled on the couch back at my condo, blanket bunched at her thighs, tank top dipping low enough to show the curve of her breasts. Dark blonde curls tumble loose and wild over one shoulder. Those green eyes look straight at the camera, warm and sleepy, like she just woke up. No makeup, just her natural beauty on full display.
Casual. Comfortable. Sexy as hell. She's smiling, just a little, like she knows exactly what this picture will do to me.
Me
Thanks.
Convincing myself not to stare at the photo proves useless. I stare anyway, zooming in like a creep, imagining what she's wearing under that blanket. Probably those sleep shorts that ride up when she moves. Maybe nothing at all.
Scout doesn’t usually text me. Especially not selfies. I’m not sure how to respond, but I don’t want to discourage her from sending me more photos. So I snap a selfie of myself in my gear giving a gloved thumbs up. I feel like a huge chump sending it, but I do anyway. This communication from her was unexpected, but very welcome.
“Silas!”
I look up to see Thorne staring at me. He’s the last player to leave the locker room and is waiting for me to get my ass up. “Yeah. Coming.”
I shake off thoughts of Scout and focus on following my teammates. Game day. My head needs to stay on the ice. We need the win. The Havoc have cleaved a path right down the middle, winning just as many games as we lost.
The game is a complete disaster.
Toronto owns us from puck drop. I play like a machine. Every shift clean, every gap closed, every passing lane covered. It doesn't matter. We're hemorrhaging goals from mistakes I can't fix alone.
Hunter does his best as right wing, aggressively going after the puck, checking the opposition into the boards, taking every shot he has. Between him and Thorne, at least they score two goals.
Jett, on the other hand, has a really bad game. Standing in front of the net, masked and padded, looking every bit the intimidating goalie doesn't help when soft goals keep slipping in glove-side that should get saved in his sleep. Hunter takes a stupid retaliatory penalty after a clean hit and chirps his way into a double minor. Tate coughs up the puck at our own blue line and suddenly it's a breakaway. Thorne misreads coverage and leaves Jett hung out to dry.
